‘Butcher’s bills!’ butcher’s bills!’ echoed Andrew; ’why, you must have butcher’s bills; why, confound! why, you’ll have a bill for this, won’t you, Harry? eh? of course!’

‘There will be no more bills dating from yesterday,’ said his wife.

‘What! this is paid for, then?’

’Yes, Mr. Cogglesby; and so will all household expenses be, while my pocket-money lasts.’

Resting his eyes full on Harriet a minute, Andrew dropped them on the savourless white-rimmed chop, which looked as lonely in his plate as its parent dish on the table.  The poor dear creature’s pocket-money had paid for it!  The thought, mingling with a rush of emotion, made his ideas spin.  His imagination surged deliriously.  He fancied himself at the Zoological Gardens, exchanging pathetic glances with a melancholy marmoset.  Wonderfully like one the chop looked!  There was no use in his trying to eat it.  He seemed to be fixing his teeth in solid tears.  He choked.  Twice he took up knife and fork, put them down again, and plucking forth his handkerchief, blew a tremendous trumpet, that sent the Countess’s eyes rolling to the ceiling, as if heaven were her sole refuge from such vulgarity.

‘Damn that Old Tom!’ he shouted at last, and pitched back in his chair.

‘Mr. Cogglesby!’ and ‘In the presence of ladies!’ were the admonishing interjections of the sisters, at whom the little man frowned in turns.

‘Do you wish us to quit the room, sir?’ inquired his wife.

‘God bless your soul, you little darling!’ he apostrophized that stately person.  ’Here, come along with me, Harry.  A wife’s a wife, I say—­hang it!  Just outside the room—­just a second! or up in a corner will do.’

Mrs. Cogglesby was amazed to see him jump up and run round to her.  She was prepared to defend her neck from his caress, and refused to go:  but the words, ‘Something particular to tell you,’ awakened her curiosity, which urged her to compliance.  She rose and went with him to the door.

‘Well, sir; what is it?’

No doubt he was acting under a momentary weakness he was about to betray the plot and take his chance of forgiveness; but her towering port, her commanding aspect, restored his courage. (There may be a contrary view of the case.) He enclosed her briskly in a connubial hug, and remarked with mad ecstasy:  ’What a duck you are, Harry!  What a likeness between you and your mother.’

Mrs. Cogglesby disengaged herself imperiously.  Had he called her aside for this gratuitous insult?  Contrite, he saw his dreadful error.

‘Harry!  I declare!’ was all he was allowed to say.  Mrs. Cogglesby marched back to her chair, and recommenced the repast in majestic silence.

Andrew sighed; he attempted to do the same.  He stuck his fork in the blanched whiskerage of his marmoset, and exclaimed:  ‘I can’t!’

He was unnoticed.